The Unexpected Ally

by Sarah Woodbury

  Thus, after she’d eaten and checked on Tangwen again—and resisted the temptation to lie down on the pallet beside her daughter—she went in search of Rhys, finding him in the abbot’s quarters. These were a suite of rooms in the west range of the cloister. As she arrived, he was finishing breakfast.

  At the sight of her entering the room, Rhys pushed away his bowl with its remains of porridge and rose to his feet to greet her. “Did you find something?”

  His expression was so hopeful, Gwen hated to disappoint him, but she shook her head sadly. “Not yet, but I did want to congratulate you on your rise to abbot.”

  Rhys made a huh sound in the back of his throat and gestured that she should sit in the chair on the other side of his desk. Then he sat too and clasped his hands in front of him. “I don’t know if congratulations are really in order, my dear. Some would say that my job and that of a sheepdog are much the same.”

  “But you are so good at it,” Gwen said. “It’s always nice when someone outside your immediate friends or family acknowledges your particular skills. Just because you were a warrior once doesn’t mean you didn’t have a head for managing money and men.”

  Rhys smiled. “You are as sweet as ever. Now—it was kind of you to congratulate me, but that isn’t really why you’re here, is it? Tell me what you need from me.”

  “I think you already know the routine, Father. We need to question everyone in the monastery about Erik. We don’t know anything about his movements over the last months, never mind the last few days. We don’t even know if he arrived last night, or weeks ago.”

  “And you don’t have a body to examine for clues.” He grimaced. “Despite that lack, did Gareth get enough time with it to estimate when he died?”

  “No, except that the condition of the body tells him that Erik wasn’t in the water for more than a few hours. That could mean he died shortly after midnight and was put in the trough directly, or if he died longer ago, that the body was moved.”

  “How does he know that?”

  “It has to do with the way the blood pooled, discoloring Erik’s back, and the extent to which the skin wrinkled and loosened on his fingers—” Gwen broke off as Rhys raised one hand.

  “I understand. No need to explain. I accept Gareth’s judgment in this matter.”

  Gwen smiled gently. “I’m sorry. You’ve been involved in these deaths before, and sometimes I get carried away with my explanations.”

  “I must be growing squeamish in my old age. Don’t mind me.”

  Gwen moved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. For now, we’re working on the premise that Erik died during the night between sunset and when your milkman found the body this morning. We’re hoping that among all the people in St. Asaph last night, someone will have noticed something amiss.”

  “Men can be restless during those hours, myself included, though I saw and heard nothing that could be useful.” Rhys eyed her. “While you question my brethren, what will Gareth be doing?”

  “He and Conall—that’s the Irishman we’ve befriended—are going to survey the murder site, speak to the monk who found Erik, and try to find some sign of the men who took the body and where they might have taken it. Why they might have taken it will have to wait.”

  “I can tell you the answer to that: they took it to cover up wrongdoing,” Rhys said, speaking like the churchman he was. “I’ve just come from talking to Brother Ben, the monk who was driving the cart. Ben says he never saw the faces of the men who attacked him. They wore their hoods pulled down over their foreheads. He was not subdued quite as forcefully as Gareth, however, and he was able to count five of them.

  “Gareth couldn’t even tell us that much. Three attacked him at once. He almost drowned.” She shuddered.

  “Your husband does have a knack for finding trouble, doesn’t he?” Rhys reached a hand across the desk, and she took it, squeezing once.

  Despite her worries about Gareth’s wellbeing, Gwen managed a smile, though inside, her heart quailed again at how badly injured he was. Since Shrewsbury, with the long journey on horseback home to Aber, the two-day ride to St. Asaph, and then this new attack, Gareth was pushing the edge of what his body was capable of recovering from without real rest. He needed to be in bed.

  She and Gareth had resolved to take the investigations they encountered in the path of service to Prince Hywel with a lighter heart, if at all possible, and also to strive to avoid entangling her family members in them more than could be helped. That they were faced with another murder so soon after the last one was troubling, and it was even more troubling that they not only knew the dead man, but that his profession was akin to theirs: there was no getting around the fact that Erik had been a spy, and he may well have been killed for it.

  “It’s going to be all right, Gwen. Will you tell me what happened in Shrewsbury?”

  It was as if Rhys could read her mind, and to have him so solicitous had tears pricking at the corners of Gwen’s eyes. She closed them for a moment, forcing her shoulders to relax and the lines that had formed on her forehead without her realizing it to smooth.

  And then she told him all about the couple who’d impersonated her and Gareth; the quest to discover the impersonaters’ identities; how it had led her whole family to Shrewsbury where they’d become embroiled in another investigation; and how the end result implicated Cadwaladr and Madog in nefarious activities.

  When she finished and met Rhys’s eyes, she found him studying her, more concern in his expression than she’d ever seen.

  Gwen lifted one shoulder in imitation of Gareth. “Gareth and Hywel want to keep me out of danger. We came close to dying in Shrewsbury, and they don’t want to risk me again.”

  “We men can’t help feeling protective of you, Gwen. You know that.” Rhys frowned. “I too am concerned about what happened in Shrewsbury and particularly about the wounds you and your husband sustained.”

  Gwen opened her mouth to say that she herself hadn’t been injured, but Rhys had already thought of that and forestalled her. “I’m not talking about just physical wounds, Gwen. You cannot survive what you endured and remain unchanged.” But then he sighed. “Unfortunately, right now I have duties to attend to or I would be the one to take you around the monastery. I assume Prince Hywel has thought far enough ahead that he has assigned a guard to you?”

  “That he has. Gareth’s friend, Evan, has consented to come along. I think he’s angry at Gareth for leaving him behind as much as he has in recent weeks. Otherwise, the number of fighting men you have in the region means they’ll be tripping over themselves this week, seeing danger in every shadow. Wait until you meet Hywel’s foster father. He isn’t a large man, but he’s ferociously protective of Hywel.”

  “As well he should be.” Rhys slapped both thighs sharply and stood. “They rode east expecting a war and got a peace conference and a murder instead.”

  Gwen tipped up her chin to look at him. “Only the youngest among them could be sorry about peace.” Then she hesitated, biting her lip. She hadn’t risen to her feet yet, even though Rhys was implying that their meeting was over by rising himself.

  “What is it, Gwen?”

  “King Owain is very angry. It is hard to see how Madog could be in the right in any way. He tried to kill Hywel.”

  “I understand that Madog’s offense against Hywel cannot go unanswered,” Rhys came around his desk and looked down at her, “but Madog’s grievances against Owain and Gwynedd run deep and are not limited to what occurred this month. You know that.”

  Gwen nodded. “I suppose I shouldn’t complain about my task today. Solving a murder is easy compared to what’s in store for you.”

  Rhys laughed and held out his hand to help her to her feet. “I am aware that King Owain is here only out of respect for me. I think he wants a war.”

  “He lost a son,” Gwen said simply. “But peace or war, I can be grateful that Gareth’s injuries will keep him out of the fighting for the foreseeable fut
ure.”

  Rhys smiled broadly. “God works in mysterious ways, doesn’t he? A week ago, you would never have said that Gareth taking a blow like he did would be a blessing. And now—”

  Gwen’s eyes lit. “And now I would! Thank you for reminding me that good can come from any setback. In truth, we rode here with King Owain because we could do nothing else, but if the king had realized how unfit Gareth was, he would have left him behind at Aber.”

  “Then it is just as well he didn’t know, since I have need of Gareth. Again, we can be thankful even when circumstances don’t seem to call for it.”

  Chapter Six

  Gwen

  Rhys moved towards the door and opened it. “Lwc! I need—” He cut himself off at the sight of his assistant already standing in the doorway with an eager expression on his face.

  “Yes, Father?”

  Even though he was quite a few years older than her brother, Lwc reminded Gwen very much of Gwalchmai, and she almost laughed again.

  Rhys recovered from his surprise and gestured to Gwen. “Lwc, I would like you to be Gwen’s escort around the monastery. She and her guard, Evan, who serves Prince Hywel, are to have full access to all areas of the monastery and to every monk, barring those in the infirmary. We need to find this killer before he strikes again.”

  Lwc straightened his shoulders to an almost military bearing. “Yes, Father.” Then he hesitated. “What about Prior Anselm? He’s been feeling poorly of late and sleeping in the infirmary rather than in his cell, but he was about earlier.”

  “If he’s in the infirmary, don’t disturb him,” Rhys said. “We know already that he didn’t recognize the dead man. I will speak to him myself later.”

  “Why choose me, Father?” Lwc said.

  “Because I don’t have to explain to you the seriousness of what has occurred, and I know you will be discreet.”

  The expression on Lwc’s face as he looked at Rhys was one of hero-worship. “You can count on me, Father.”

  Rhys settled a hand on his shoulder. “I know I can. That’s why I chose you for this task.”

  It was still raining as Evan, Gwen, and Lwc set out from Rhys’s office. Gareth had made it clear that he would be speaking to the brothers who worked in the fields and gardens, so it was Gwen’s job to take on everybody else. The monastery at St. Asaph was Welsh in origin, having been founded by St. Kentigern five hundred years earlier, before there were any Roman monastic orders in Wales at all. It was a poorer monastery than the Abbey of St. Peter and St. Paul in Shrewsbury from which she’d just come and was home to one hundred monks.

  In typical more equitable Welsh fashion, St. Kentigern’s employed few laymen to work for them. Compared to the abbey in Shrewsbury, Gwen was much more comfortable here, among Welshmen, speaking Welsh and with Welsh customs and norms. It had been odd to be in England, even if only seven miles from the Welsh border, and find that what she thought was normal and made sense perhaps didn’t quite. But even a hundred was a great many men to question in a day.

  Roughly half the monks in the monastery worked within a stone’s throw of the guesthouse, and the rest were scattered far and wide in the fields and pastures which the monastery controlled. With the idea that they might as well start with what was closest, their first stop was the scriptorium. Gwen and Evan waited in the corridor for Lwc to pace importantly ahead of them and prepare the monks for Gwen’s arrival. He left the door open, however, and Evan watched with bright eyes as Lwc lectured his fellow monks on discretion. Gwen herself suppressed a smile and looked down at the ground.

  As they waited, Evan stretched his back and shoulders, loosening his muscles. “I, for one, am not sorry that I’m not out there in the muck fighting men of Powys today.”

  “I would that men never went to war again,” Gwen said, “but I don’t see how the abbot will achieve peace, even if he wants it desperately. At the same time, I can’t see what Madog has to gain from fighting.”

  Evan pursed his lips before speaking. “He has more men than we do.”

  Gwen frowned. “He does?”

  Evan waggled his head. “We all know it. Since Rhun’s death, King Owain has been neglecting his kingdom. Not as many lords have rallied around his banner as might have a year ago.”

  “I didn’t know.” Gwen bit her lip. “That’s bad—bad for all of us.”

  “It is a bargaining piece for Madog, who is clearly in the wrong at the moment. The key will be getting both sides to back down without losing face.”

  Then Lwc returned, looking satisfied. “They are ready, but I can tell you already that none of them know anything.”

  Gwen struggled not to grind her teeth, since she had wanted to be the one to question them without predisposing anyone to conclusions. She should have said something before Lwc went in there. It was fine giving the young monk the satisfaction of leading them, but he knew nothing about investigations. If she allowed him to continue as he had, he would hinder her.

  “Thank you, but you know I have to ask.” Then she leaned into him and whispered. “You intimidate the others because you are the abbot’s secretary. I am grateful for your assistance with the questioning, but it would be better if you let me do the talking from here on out. As a woman, I am less threatening.” She raised her eyebrows innocently as she finished her little speech.

  Lwc nodded emphatically. “Yes. Yes, of course. I understand.”

  “Thank you.” Gwen looked at Evan. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d prefer it if you stay by the door too.”

  Evan smirked from behind Lwc’s back, having enough experience working with her and Gareth to know full well what Gwen had just accomplished. He nodded, acquiescing so it would be easier for Lwc to do the same.

  Gwen entered the room and went to each monk in turn, introduced herself, and explained that Gareth had asked her to show the image of Erik to as many people as possible in hopes that somebody had seen him. Unfortunately, Lwc was right that none of the six monks in the scriptorium claimed to have been awake in the middle of the night other than for the vigil of the night office. None of them had ever seen Erik before, even when Gwen added to their understanding of the black and white image by describing his size and coloring.

  As Gwen and Evan progressed through the monastery, they found nobody with useful information. Not in the laundry, among those who worked in the kitchen or the stable or tended to the needs of Abbot Rhys, or among the novices. The guesthouse had been completely taken over by King Owain and his retainers, so there were no guests to question this time. Even the monk who oversaw the gatehouse had been aware of no activity last night or any night that seemed to have a bearing on Erik’s death. Everybody looked at the sketch of Erik that Gareth had drawn and shook his head.

  This particular monastery was unfamiliar to Gwen—Gareth had been here only briefly several years ago—but she’d spent time in monasteries in the past, most recently in Aberystwyth and Shrewsbury. It was enough to have grown familiar with how things were supposed to be done. Above all, especially in a monastery run by Abbot Rhys, there was dignity, reverence for God’s creation, and order. Gwen could see it in the well-trimmed hedges and the carefully edged pathways through the garden. The guesthouse had been sparsely but adequately furnished and immaculately swept and dusted. The bread last night had been a small slice of heaven. Gwen suspected that every book and paper in the scriptorium was aligned perfectly with every other, and woe betide the novice who spilled his ink.

  What’s more, Rhys had an entire monastery of innocent monks.

  More than a little disheartened, though Gwen knew she shouldn’t be since this was part of the job of an investigator, and it was more usual than not to spend a great deal of time asking questions nobody could answer, by mid-afternoon Gwen and Evan found themselves underneath the gatehouse tower, watching the rain cascade off the roof and spatter on the flagstones of the courtyard.

  They hadn’t deliberately saved the questioning of Brother Pedr, the gatekeeper, for la
st, but he had been the last monk Lwc had brought them to. Pedr hadn’t been any more helpful than anybody else, and Lwc had departed for afternoon prayers with yet another satisfied look of a job well done, if fruitless in the end. Pedr, as gatekeeper, had remained behind, since (as he told them) his duty didn’t stop for prayers, and he would say them alone in his little room at the base of the tower. As an older monk, he was no longer suited to manual labor, but his mind remained sharp, even if his knees creaked when he walked.

  And as it turned out, the need for him to stay was shown to be true a moment later by the arrival of a lone monk, who appeared out of the rain, head bent and cloak clutched tightly around himself, having come from the east. He was an older man, one who upon first impression appeared to be very much in the vein of Abbot Rhys. Like the abbot, he was dressed sensibly for the journey in boots and cloak, though still in the robes of a monk. He dismounted within the shelter of the gatehouse tower, pushed back his hood, and looked around for someone to speak to. He spied Gwen and Evan at the same moment that Pedr came hurrying from his watch room.

  “Welcome, brother!” Pedr said. “You look as if you’ve come far.”

  The newcomer had already opened his mouth to speak to Gwen and Evan, but he swung around to Pedr. “I am Brother Deiniol from St. Dunawd’s Monastery southeast of Wrexham. I am sent here by my abbot to Abbot Rhys on a matter of utmost urgency.”

  “We are at prayers at the moment, but you are welcome to join them in the church until we’ve finished—”

  “I have missed the vigils, but this cannot wait.” Deiniol shook his head vehemently in case Pedr was going to argue with him about it.